


Not in the cab John

by magicalcookie664



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Desperation, Omorashi, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:50:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalcookie664/pseuds/magicalcookie664
Summary: John wets himself in a cab and Sherlock tries and fails not to be aroused.Omorashi warning! Heed the tags if you please :p
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	Not in the cab John

**Author's Note:**

> Don't read if you don't like omorashi. If you don't know what that is search it up before reading. I will not tolerate hate. Seriousness aside, I hope this turned out okay :) I wrote this at midnight when I couldn't sleep so no promises.

John regrets being British - okay, no, he doesn't, being British is a great thing and he'd never want to be anything else - he just regrets his love for tea. It isn't the worst diuretic (unlike coffee) thank god, but it packs quite a punch and can spring out at you when you least expect it. Like now. He's sat next to Sherlock in a cab, staring out of the window with his best expression of nonchalance in place. He wouldn't want Sherlock to start asking questions, would he? It's hard enough having to hide his secret crush on the man without anymore awkward situations to complicate things. 

He'd been tired and they'd just finished up another elaborate case, sitting down for a drink and a breather in one of the nearest cafes. They'd discussed things, brought forward a few interesting topics and caused a few laughs, ordered a bit of cake and not eaten much. Then he'd gone and drunk tea, two frigging mugs of it,his and Sherlock's, as the detective lost interest in it when it grew cold, as he does most things. Interesting case turned dull, nope no thank you. So John had eagerly drunk his friend's tea, unaware of Sherlock's smug interested expression and vaguely aroused gaze fixed on him. It had been fine; he loves tea, everyone knows that.

Right now, he wishes he didn't. John blows out a sigh, shifting into a different position in a vain attempt to find comfort. The cafe was just short of an hour ago and he's already regretting a lot. He crosses his legs, biting his lip anxiously as the ache in his lower stomach grows worse. It's already reached over half way, which is never a good thing for long journeys. They still have an hour left cramped up in this stupid cab, he thinks, glaring bitterly out the window as the passing cars drive by. His bladder aches, the type of ache that won't go away no matter how many times you wiggle in your seat or change your position. It throbs, a dull pulsating throb centred in the middle of his abdomen, slowly growing harder to ignore. He makes a point to try and ignore it, telling himself they'll reach 221b soon, even if it's a little bit of a lie. 

Ten minutes pass and he finds it harder to remain still. The ache has grown, making it difficult to think straight. Every time he tries to distract himself his thoughts are snatched back to his quickly filling bladder by a piercing stab of pain or an increase in the building pressure. He chews on his lip subconsciously, a groan slipping past his lips despite his attempts to hide his turmoil. 

Sherlock glances at him, a concerned expression on his face. "John, is something wrong?" He questions, eyes darting over his friend's body, searching for any signs of injury. 

John blushes a little, nodding hurriedly,"I'm fine," he replies, forcing himself to sit still. He has to be more subtle about this. 

Sherlock turns to look out of the window, frowning slightly. He's a little confused. John is acting beyond weird and he can't fathom why. He's overly tense, Sherlock can see that right away, and the position he has himself in with his legs crossed tightly over each other can't be comfortable. John never sits like that usually. He decides to keep an eye on him, watching his friend out of the corner of his eye while pretending to look out of the window. 

John bites his lip again, squirming a little. It's becoming quite painful now, and they still have over 20 minutes of the journey remaining. He's beginning to doubt his ability to hold it that long. No, no, he will hold it, has to - going in the cab is out of the question, especially in front of Sherlock. He crosses his legs tighter over each other, resisting the childish urge to grip himself. He isn't at that point yet. 

Another ten minutes pass, but they feel like hours, dragging on and on forever. Now John really can't stay still. He resorts to jiggling his leg as he concentrates on keeping everything inside. Gosh, he's really regretting all of that tea. He glances downwards, blushing further as he notices the slight bulge directly below his stomach. He knows he won't be able to hold it much longer. But he's an adult, a grown man and an ex soldier - he has to. So he bites his lip, squeezing his thighs together as his leg jiggles erratically, his entire body straining to keep himself in check. He won't wet himself. He won't. 

Sherlock has it figured out. He rolls his eyes, annoyed with his own stupidity. It's obvious now that the problems grown worse and be scolds himself internally for not realising it sooner. John has to pee, badly. It's clear from the position he's sat in alone, so drastically different from the way he usually sits, legs further apart and not touching. His friend's constant squirming is beginning to get on his nerves, though he knows John can't help it. It occurs to him after a few minutes of sitting in silence, watching John's struggles from corner of his eye, that he should speak up. "Were nearly there, John," he remarks, turning to look at his friend with a little bit of pity,"Only a few minutes left," he lies, knowing that it's quite a lot more than 'a few', but sensing that the truth is not something his blogger needs to hear right now. 

John's head snaps up and his eyes lock onto Sherlock's, his expression a mix of desperation, confusion and shock. "What do you-" he begins, but is cut off. 

"John, it's obvious. I know you need to pee and I have for quite a while," Sherlock replies, attempting to keep the narcissistic tone from his voice, and failing a little. 

John opens his mouth to respond but as soon as he does his bladder gives a sharp throb, threatening the dryness of his pants. He gives up all attempts at looking composed and jams his hand between his legs, hunched over in the chair. He hasn't leaked yet, but he's desperately close to. Any word he began to say twists into a strangled groan as he squeezes his eyes shut, full out squirming in the backseat. 

Sherlock's eyes grow wide and his cheeks heat up a little, not from embarrassment though, from something else, something he can't quite name. Looking at John so desperate and undone causes a hot tingly feeling to curl in his stomach. He can't quite bring himself to speak. 

"Shit," John gasps as a short spurt escapes into his underwear, hot and wet against his skin. A tiny dark patch appears on his pants, a tennis ball sized circle of wetness. 

If Sherlock's eyes were wide before, that's nothing compared to how wide they are now. He feels himself growing semi hard, and hurriedly covers his crotch with his hands to hide his stupid body's reaction. He feels ashamed of himself. He shouldn't be aroused now. John can't help the sounds he's making.. or the facial expressions he's pulling. Sherlock swallows thickly. Knowing these things won't help his growing boner, though. Goddamn his stupid sex deprived body. 

When John leaks for the second time, he knows it's all over. The spurt soaks into his pants, covering his bum with wetness. He blushes profusely, whining in desperation. He feels like such a baby. "I- ngh," he groans, doubling over.

"Not in the cab, John," Sherlock manages, his pupils dilating on account of the sound his friend just made. 

John's bladder spasms, beginning to forcibly push the liquid out. He gasps, but it melts into a moan as his entire body goes lax. He just can't hold it any longer. It begins slowly, but quickly morphs into a flood. It soaks through his partially wet pants, drenching them swiftly before spreading out around him, producing a growing ring of dark fabric surrounding him. It streaks down his legs and drips off of the edge of the seat, pooling in the footwell and thoroughly saturating his feet. 

Sherlock just stares, unable to form any comprehensible words. His eyes follow the rivets of piss as they skate down John's legs and drip into the growing puddle around his feet. 

John is completely and utterly mortified, even blinded but the pleasure of relief, he finds himself going bright red as pesky tears burn in his eyes. He's just wet himself in the bloody cab. Sherlock is going to hate him. "I'm sorry," he manages once his stream as tapered out and he's left shaking from exhaustion sitting in a cooling puddle of his own piss. 

"It's alright, John. It's not your fault," Sherlock replies, giving his friend a tentative smile. 

When they arrive at 221b fifteen minutes later John rushes straight upstairs to shower and change his clothes without saying a word to Sherlock. Luckily for the detective, he was too busy worrying about his accident to notice the man's arousal. Sherlock deals with it in his room while John takes his shower. He's planning on telling John about his interest at some point, just not yet. First he has to realise what it truly entails and whether or not he wants that.

**Author's Note:**

> Might make this a series, idk yet.


End file.
